“Under the apprehension that it had already occurred—­the misapprehension—­I took steps to impanel a jury,” said he, addressing both Barker and McLean.  “They are—­ah—­waiting outside.  Responsible men, Governor, and have sat before.  Drybone has few responsible men to-night, but I procured these at a little game where they were—­ah—­losing.  You may go back, gentlemen,” said he, going to the door.  “I will summon you in proper time.”  He looked in the room again.  “Is the husband not intending—­”

“That’s enough, Judge,” said McLean.  “There’s too many here without adding him.”

“Judge,” spoke a voice at the door, “ain’t she ready yet?”

“She is still passing away,” observed Slaghammer, piously.

“Because I was thinking,” said the man—­“I was just—­You see, us jury is dry and dead broke.  Doggonedest cards I’ve held this year, and—­Judge, would there be anything out of the way in me touching my fee in advance, if it’s a sure thing?”

“I see none, my friend,” said Slaghammer, benevolently, “since it must be.”  He shook his head and nodded it by turns.  Then, with full-blown importance, he sat again, and wrote a paper, his coroner’s certificate.  Next door, in Albany County, these vouchers brought their face value of five dollars to the holder; but on Drybone’s neutral soil the saloons would always pay four for them, and it was rare that any jury-man could withstand the temptation of four immediate dollars.  This one gratefully received his paper, and, cherishing it like a bird in the hand, he with his colleagues bore it where they might wait for duty and slake their thirst.

In the silent room sat Lin McLean, his body coming to life more readily than his shaken spirit.  Barker, seeing that the cow-puncher meant to watch until the end, brought the whiskey to him.  Slaghammer drew documents from his pocket to fill the time, but was soon in slumber over them.  In all precincts of the quadrangle Drybone was keeping it up late.  The fiddle, the occasional shouts, and the crack of the billiard-balls travelled clear and far through the vast darkness outside.  Presently steps unsteadily drew near, and round the corner of the door a voice, plaintive and diffident, said, “Judge, ain’t she most pretty near ready?”

“Wake up, Judge!” said Barker.  “Your jury has gone dry again.”

The man appeared round the door—­a handsome, dishevelled fellow—­with hat in hand, balancing himself with respectful anxiety.  Thus was a second voucher made out, and the messenger strayed back happy to his friends.  Barker and McLean sat wakeful, and Slaghammer fell at once to napping.  From time to time he was roused by new messengers, each arriving more unsteady than the last, until every juryman had got his fee and no more messengers came.  The coroner slept undisturbed in his chair.  McLean and Barker sat.  On the bed the mass, with its pink ribbons, breathed and breathed, while moths flew round the lamp, tapping and falling with light sounds.  So did the heart of the darkness wear itself away, and through the stone-cold air the dawn began to filter and expand.